


P2

by route216



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions
Genre: Also Disclaimer: The Abuse Depicted Here Is Absolutely Not Meant To Be Sexy Or Cute Or Funny, Angst, Gen, OP Is A Survivor And This Was Basically A Vent In BW Fic Form, Pre-Canon, So Please. Have Some Class, also this is my very first thing on here i Really hope im doing this right, animal abuse??? i guess this could be seen as such, basically this is my version of events in the P2 lab prior to the ingame events, heavy abuse impications, implications of abuse against women, n is mentioned but hes not actually in it, rated m just. in case, surgery/medical procedure mention, told from the pov of male plasma grunt #509
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 18:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21378850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/route216/pseuds/route216
Summary: That hot summer day.
Kudos: 3





	P2

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a fic of mine that was originally written in around 2010 and posted on my (long since deactivated) deviantART account, during a time when I was an Edgy Teen Really into PokePasta (well. not so much that as i was a depressed, traumatized teen using pokepasta as a weird means of coping. Who Also was edgy), and this was one of my last works from that time, and one that I was very attached to. its been revised to match my current writing ability and to be. More Readable (this still wasnt beta read tho lol) 
> 
> so. Here

My memories of the weather are the most vivid.

It must have been over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit that one summer day. That one summer day, I, along with one of my many assigned companions, were forced to haul that near-cadaver over our heads, both of us trying our damndest not to trip over as our own sweat dripped into our eyes. I absolutely hated doing it. I was more or less a young boy at the time, and was not as accepting of death as I should have been, and so with every second I spent carrying the half-dead beast in a pair of fumbling hands only shielded by thin plastic gloves that burned against the scalding metal that was now the creature’s hide, I pleaded with myself not to pollute the surroundings with my own vomit. I still wonder if the grunt in front of me felt the same way. I was too short of breath to ask him.

My memories of the noises are clear as well, very clear. The roar of the nearby ocean current echoing through route 17, as if she were furious by the crime we were about to commit, the breathless and exhausted panting coming from both myself and my companion, and the migraine-inducing voice of the man I’d been forced to call “sir” — Dr. Dudley, he called himself — rang through my head. The man was stationed outside of a far-too-unwelcoming, far-too-tiny warehouse, shouting at the top of his lungs at us for being “sluggish" and for wasting his so-called "valuable time".

_No one._

_No one commands me but my Lord N._

_No one._

It was Hell trying to get the large specimen through the tiny door of the warehouse — or the "P2 Laboratory", as Professor Dudley himself had christened it — without dropping it, and it was even more so attempting to get the dozens of the other grunts in front of us to clear away from our path. Faceless gray masses writhed and shifted all around me as my vision blurred more and more with every step I took, each one more agonizing than the last, and it was only by the grace of my partner’s voice that I hadn’t blacked out on the spot. I just wanted to put the specimen down. I just wanted to go home. I didn’t want to be here.

The inside of the P2 Laboratory proved far hotter and much more suffocating than the summer air outside. There must have been at least a hundred other grunts crammed within that single-room building at once, frantically shoving each other aside and cursing under their breaths as they attempted to get a passable amount of air and elbow room. The incoherent mumbling of multiple others talking about who-knows-what droned on, then was hushed, and then was muted completely as the ear-piercing slam of the creature making contact with the tiled floor echoed throughout the room, just barely missing our feet.

The doctor followed right behind the two of us, screaming, "It took you long enough! I prepared the station an hour ago, slackers!"

He turned his attention away from us half a second before I rolled my eyes in disgust, and he directed his animosity towards the grunts near the door that he hadn’t bothered to close himself.

"What are you dolts waiting for? Hurry up, close that door before that.. that _child_ sees us and ruins everything, AGAIN!"

As my partner and I joined the crowd and retained out position as interchangeable henchman, the grunts near the doorway halfheartedly did as they were told, their only protest being the evident grimaces across their faces — their obedience was not out of care or support for the doctor or his ambitions, but out of fear that our Lord would witness our actions, our treason. Without the light of the blazing sun to illuminate the room, the place was nearly pitch black, a single flickering light hanging by a thin string from the flaking, pale white ceiling being our only source of light. We got a clear look at the beast while it was on the metallic floor, too clear — I still see it, I still shudder. It looked almost like a human with its bipedal legs, each with a single white talon at the tip, its hide, now iron from the modifications it had been subjected to, a dark purple. The silent, slow, but still all-too-audible breathing emitting from its wide, toothy mouth served as the lab’s sole ambiance.

Dr. Dudley shoved through the crowd so he could witness the specimen for himself, soon making comment after comment after distasteful, hateful, vile comment about it, the absolute kindest of his words being " disgusting," his almost cheerful and playful sing-song tone making the scene all the more horrific. I felt a rigid knot in my abdomen, throbbing rushes going through my head as a deluge of negative emotions surged through me — I couldn’t tell if I wanted to fall to my knees and burst into tears like I did as a toddler, or to jadedly dart forward and strangle the doctor to death in a violent bout of anger. Perhaps, on that hot summer day, I wanted to do both.

_It's blistering._

The doctor punctuated his verbal abuse with a wheezy scoff, before boasting that his plan would be maintained "whether the brat liked it or not", a remark that made my fists involuntarily clench. He faced all of us, saying that we would “have the honor” of being involved in the development of "making this useless thing into a fighting machine", a stomach-turning grin of unadulterated self-importance on his face. As I stealthily examined the room around me, the grunts, who now appeared just as human as I, the ones that I could see, were all gazing at each other from the corner of their cerulean eyes, not even so much as a smirk in the crowd, expressions of undeniable discomfort and guilt painted on their sleep-deprived, battered, sweat-drenched faces, and I was more than sure than any grunt who could see me in that room saw that exact same face. They didn’t want to do this. My partner didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to do this. Not only were we robbing the creature of its natural beauty while it couldn't even defend itself, but we were also going against the wishes of our Lord N, who was undeniably going about his day under the unwittingly ignorant assumption that we were out fighting for the liberation of Pokémon from selfish humans, and that the creature suffering on the filthy lab floor was thriving happily in a forest, in the desert, absolutely anywhere but the horrible place he thought that he shut down. We were forbidden to show any remorse towards the specimen, however, and we were even more strictly prohibited to speak anything on Lord N's behalf. I could always tell which grunts were the bravest among us — those grunts, including the women (the people who I, as a man, had been assigned a duty to protect before I was even taught to say my ABCs), bore reddened cheeks, bloodied gaps between their teeth, and blackened, bruised eyes laden with undying allegiance to their king.

I had so much respect for them.

So, so much respect.

_How…_

_How dare he do this._

The doctor loomed over the creature, demanding that one of us hand him one of the surgical knives strewn about a metal tray in front of us. I felt my heart go into my throat; he was about to do it, about to install that horrid cannon. Everyone else knew this as well; it was dead silence, no one moved. No one wanted to enable this. No one wanted to be the one who set the treachery in stone.

"Well? Is someone going to move, or do I once again need to demonstrate your place in this lab?" the doctor had snarled, leering directly at a young female grunt who had a swollen left eye, his intentions clear and loud even though the light that glared the lenses of his glasses. She was the unlucky grunt who stood within arm reach of the doctor’s tray of sharp surgical tools, so she knew what was expected of her. I watched as her body shuddered, her lips quivered, her eyes damped. She was the one to hand the man the surgical tool he demanded, her body trembling as she did so, a male grunt, one having a missing front tooth, placing a sympathy-laced hand on her shoulder. The knife was snatched out of her hand without any inkling of a “thank you” — something none of us could have cared less about, especially not her. The moment that the doctor turned his back, the woman buried her face into our emblem embroidered into the male grunt’s chest, defaced by a blot of his own blood. He clutched her tightly as she wept as quietly as her composure would allow her to, whispering to her with a tone of stone-cold assurance that what was about to happen wasn’t her fault.

_Which it wasn’t._

There was no fanfare, no ego-fueled announcement — we were given no time to prepare for what we were about to see. Less than a full minute after he was given the knife, my stomach churned as I watched the knife meet with the beast's skin. That was all that I saw of the procedure; my eyes snapped shut as soon as he began, and I could feel my partner clinging to me, keeping me from fainting, and probably to prevent himself from doing so. I could still hear the nonchalant commands of Dudley clear as day, and the choked whispers of my comrades.

_"How? How does he sleep at night?”_

_“I'm gonna fuckin’ puke…”_

_“My Lord, my king, I plead your forgiveness…”_

After what seemed like decades, I heard his voice amplifying through the small area.

"Success!"

I reluctantly and slowly opened my eyes, and the first thing in my line of sight was a grunt kneeling on the floor, pale as a sheet.

“That…You…” another grunt, just as pale, uttered out, before immediately going silent.

There was nothing we could say.

The man turned to us once more, telling us that he has successfully completed his "creation", and that the success would bring about endless benefits.

_Not for us. _

_Not for our king._

_Not for our king's dearest friends, especially not the one who'd just been tainted._

_Only... _

_for him._

I suppose he expected us to cheer, to shower him with praise, to gleefully tell him that he was right and our Lord was wrong, but we refused to deliver; we wouldn't, couldn't contribute any longer. Even as the creature painfully struggled its way on its hind legs, its compound eyes filled with the same burning hatred towards the doctor that all of us had, not a word was spoken, and the creature stood as docile, as we did.

The final words that I ever heard from that doctor, from that warehouse, still reverberate throughout my consciousness, even louder than the ocean's exasperated waves, louder than the creature's weight breaking the flooring beneath it as it was dropped, louder than the grunt who handed over the knife as she grieved what she felt was her stolen dignity. 

"I dub my masterpiece, the true face of Team Plasma..."

_Genesect._


End file.
